His voice came after a long stretch of silence—low, restrained, nothing like the thunder it usually carried.
"Myra…"
She didn't answer. She didn't move. But he knew she was listening. He always did.
"Come back to the palace," he said quietly. "Not to me. Just… come back."
His forehead rested against the door now. The wood felt cold, unforgiving—just like the distance she had put between them.
"I'll stay away if that's what you want," he continued, each word chosen with care, as if one wrong syllable might shatter her further. "I won't step into your space. I won't look at you if you don't want me to. I won't speak unless you speak first."
Inside, Myra's fingers dug into her knees. Her breath trembled. Her heart didn't listen to logic—it only knew his voice still had the power to undo her.
"The palace is yours," Ranvijay said. "It always was. You don't have to run. You don't have to punish yourself by disappearing."
A pause. Then, softer. Raw.
"And I don't need to be near you to protect you."
That was the lie he told for her sake.
"I'll live on the other side of the walls if I have to," he went on. "Different floors. Different wings. Different lives." A faint, broken exhale. "Just don't vanish from where I can't reach you if you fall again."
Myra pressed her forehead to the door, exactly where his would be on the other side.
He wasn't asking her to forgive him.
He wasn't asking her to love him.
He was asking her to exist—safely.
"I'm not leaving," he finished. "But I won't touch you. I won't claim you. I won't even hope… if that's the price."
Silence followed. Thick. Heavy.
And in that silence, Myra realized something terrifying—
Even now, even after everything,
he was still choosing her comfort over his own survival.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
The door remained closed.
But for the first time since the truth shattered her world,
she didn't feel alone on the other side of it.
He let out a breath that felt like it tore something out of his chest before it ever reached the air.
"I'll let you go, sweetheart," he said quietly—too quietly for a man like him.
"If that's what you want."
There was no threat in it.
No command.
Just surrender dressed as love.
"But remember this," he added, voice dipping into something darker, truer.
"Letting you go doesn't mean I stop loving you. It only means I learn how to bleed without reaching for you."
He leaned his forehead back against the door once more, eyes closing.
"And if one day you look back," he murmured, almost to himself,
"you'll know—I didn't lose you."
"I chose you."
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and rain-soaked clothes.
Ranvijay sat on the edge of the bed, back straight despite the bandage wrapped tightly around his chest. The color had returned to his face, but not the fire. That was muted now—contained, like a storm locked behind iron doors.
The doctor flipped through the file once more, then looked up.
"He's stable," he said calmly. "The bullet missed the heart by millimeters. Recovery will take time, but physically—he'll live."
Rajeshwari exhaled shakily, folding her hands in gratitude. Anika wiped her tears silently, her relief mixed with fear that hadn't fully left yet.
Then the doctor added, almost as an afterthought—but it changed everything.
"I need to speak to his wife."
The room went still.
Myra, who had been standing near the window, stiffened. The word wife hit her like a truth she had forgotten how to carry.
The doctor noticed her immediately. "Mrs. Ranvijay Rajvansh," he said gently. "Could you come with me for a moment?"
Ranvijay's jaw tightened.
His eyes went straight to her back.
She didn't turn.
Myra took one step forward, then another—her movements careful, as if her body didn't fully belong to her anymore. Rajeshwari touched her arm softly, a silent strength passing between them.
Outside, the corridor was quiet.
The doctor closed the door behind them.
"I won't take much of your time," he said, lowering his voice. "But there are a few things you need to understand."
Myra nodded, fingers clenched into the fabric of her dupatta.
The doctor closed the file and looked at Myra with measured calm.
"Mrs. Ranvijay Rajvansh," he said, professional and precise, "your husband is being discharged today, but he is not out of danger."
Myra straightened immediately.
"The bullet caused internal trauma," the doctor continued. "The wound has been sutured, but infection and internal bleeding are still risks for the next few weeks."
He handed her a paper.
"These are his medications. Painkillers, antibiotics, and a mild sedative for nights only if required."
Myra took it silently, eyes fixed on the page.
"You'll need to change his bandage twice a day," the doctor said. "Morning and night. The wound must be kept dry. If you notice fever, dizziness, breathlessness, or excessive bleeding—bring him back immediately."
She nodded.
"No physical exertion," he added firmly. "No stress. No sudden movements. And absolutely no fights."
The words were clinical, but Myra felt their weight.
"He cannot be left alone," the doctor said next. "Someone must be with him 24×7 for at least ten days. If he collapses or loses consciousness, immediate medical attention is required."
Her fingers tightened around the file.
"Stitches will be removed in twelve days," the doctor concluded. "Follow-ups every third day."
He looked at her once more, assessing.
"You're his primary caregiver," he said simply. "Make sure he follows instructions."
Myra whispered, "Yes, doctor."
The doctor nodded, already stepping away.
She stood there for a moment—then turned back toward the room.
Inside, Ranvijay sat exactly where she had left him.
Still.
Waiting.
And for the first time, the truth wasn't emotional or poetic—
It was medical.
And unavoidable.